


Fine Taste

by gonfalonier



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Food, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton no longer has to sleep on an empty stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Taste

The general’s mattress is stuffed with horse hair. It’s nothing like Alexander’s feather bed at home, it’s firm, it doesn’t make his back hurt. It’s a soldier’s bed, the bed of a man who remembers sleeping on the ground. Those days seem to be behind the general, who snores peaceably behind Alexander’s back; Hamilton still doesn’t get rest. He can’t escape the noise, even now in peacetime. A cricket wakes him, a rainstorm wakes him, Washington wakes him when he mutters in his sleep. Memories wake him sometimes, the sounds of battle; and sometimes it’s ideas, opinions that need to get scratched down. He can’t do that here on these visits to Washington’s house. That was made clear early on: “You have an office, young man. It isn’t in this room.” George covers the writing desk in the bedroom with a sheet when Alexander stays the night.

Tonight Washington’s snoring wakes him, noisy intakes of air puffed out on the back of Alexander’s neck. George has an arm slung around Hamilton’s middle. When they fell asleep together it made Alexander feel safe. Now that he wants to fidget it's oppressive. He closes his eyes and tries to force himself back to sleep. He counts down from a hundred first in English, then in French. He tries to shift, hoping to roll George over and resettle him, quiet him down, give himself more freedom, but Washington is solid, a wall. 

Hamilton exhales. He’s slight -- though not as slight as he used to be -- so it isn’t hard to weasel out of George’s embrace. He’s sorry to lose it. This portion of the house is warm enough, but he’s about to wander and the rest of the place is drafty. He swings his legs over and sits upright. He casts a glance over his shoulder to check on George and then remembers that it’s dark. He turns forward again and adjusts his eyes in the faint new moon.

In the silence, his stomach gurgles. He pushes himself up and picks his way over to the door. When he opens it he hears the general stir, but only to roll over, the distinct sound of Alexander’s half of the blankets being dragged across the bed. He smiles in the dark, steps into the hall, closes the door, and lights a candle. 

Mount Vernon has amenities Alexander isn’t used to at home. He doesn’t have grounds, just a nice spot downtown. It’s crowded. He and Eliza dine out most nights; neither of them knows much about cooking. His wife gently chides him for how much he spends on clothes, fine paper and ink, and how little he budgets for food. They don’t have servants; they keep very little in the house. Mount Vernon’s kitchen is packed. Game and birds, fresh butter every day, milk, hazelnuts, carrots, sweet onions. That first visit here, the Washingtons served him and Eliza oysters.

Alexander is soundless as he descends the stone steps into the kitchen. When he stands at the threshold he feels like a thief. His cheeks burn in the candlelight as he shuffles into the room. He sets the candle on the butcher block and begins to explore. He finds potatoes in a bin and picks one up to squeeze it in his hand. Onions, too, with their papery crepitation. On the table there are apples from the orchard. Hamilton picks one up and presses it to his upper lip to inhale the autumn on its skin.

“Alexander.”

The general’s voice makes him jump. The apple falls to the floor, and Alexander scrabbles to pick it up and place it back on the table. He turns to see Washington in the doorway with a candle of his own. Hamilton’s feet are bare, his legs are bare, his nightshirt only comes to his thighs. He feels naked. He feels obscene indulging like this in a house that isn’t his.

He says, “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I wasn’t going to --”

“Shh,” George interrupts him. He’s smiling. Alexander doesn’t understand why. George crosses to him, sets his candle on the table, and picks the apple back up, the same one. He says, tenderly, “I thought I heard a mouse. Is this what you were after when you left me to freeze?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” is all the response Hamilton can muster. “I was hungry.”

Washington presses the apple into Alexander’s hand and says, “You could have woken me.” He leans in to nose at Alexander’s jaw. “I could have seen to your hunger.”

Hamilton pushes the apple back into its place so he can get both hands on Washington’s waist. He dips his head so they can kiss. Their lips are dry. Alexander slides his tongue out to wet both sets. They’re about to kiss again when Alexander’s stomach growls. Washington laughs. Hamilton winces and explains, “Dinner was too long ago. We’ve exercised since then.”

“Haven’t we.” Washington kisses him again and then thumps his hand against the tabletop. “Sit up here now. We’ll find you something to eat.”

Alexander pushes himself up. His legs dangle. He watches his commander examine the cupboard. There are jars of pickles, jewel-colored jams, sacks of raisins and dried apples, cones of sugar. On the wall, bundles of herbs are drying, hung between pots and pans. Plucked pheasants dangle from the mantle. Alexander turns to avoid the sight of them.

From the pantry George says, “Close your eyes.” Alexander plays along. He fidgets with the hem of his nightshirt as he listens to the shuffling and clinking of George preparing some kind of surprise. He hears no misstep or hesitation. No head of household should know his kitchen as well as Washington does.

Silver taps against glass and then George’s hand is on Alexander’s jaw. George says, “Open up.” Alexander’s cheeks burn as he complies. He extends his tongue to the edge of his lip, ready to receive. He feels pressure on his lip, then tastes metal and sugar and fruit. He closes his mouth and groans. The cherry preserves dissolve on his tongue in the heat of his mouth. He makes a noise as the first rivulet of jam and saliva slides off the back of his tongue and down his throat. His lips are sticky, his tongue is thick. When he opens his mouth in search of another taste he feels strands of sugary spit stretch and linger between his lips. George pats his cheek and says, “I thought you’d like that.” He feeds Alexander another spoonful, this one smaller than the last, all the better to be savored. 

George’s hand moves from his cheek to his hair, a place to stroke and grasp. He says, “You’re not a soldier anymore, young man, you don’t have to keep living like one. You can sleep. You can eat.” Alexander hears the jar slide along the table and then feels Washington’s hand on his knee. He parts his legs to accommodate the general. He tilts his head in anticipation of a kiss. He gets it. Washington keeps his hands on Alexander’s thighs, thumbs digging in as he kisses the sweet glaze off Hamilton’s lips.

When they part for breath, Alexander says, “I never learned how to indulge, sir.”

“Your clothes suggest otherwise,” George teases with a smile. “As does your behavior in my bed.”

Alexander balks. “You bring that out in me, sir, that’s not fair.”

“Then let me bring this out in you, too.”

They kiss again and the quiet settles in. Alexander’s heartbeat eases down. He hears the wind pick up outside. The flame of his candle stutters. Washington’s stays steady.

“Will you have some more?” George asks. Alexander nods. His mouth floods in anticipation of another taste. The general adds, “I’d like you to ask for it.”

“You would make me beg, sir?”

“Not beg.” Washington’s voice is grave. “I don’t ever want to hear that.” He eases up when he says, “But you could stand to learn to ask for what you want.”

Alexander swallows. It still tastes sweet. Maybe he’ll learn to make the stuff for himself, fill the paltry cupboards at home with jars of it. Give it away as gifts to friends. Send some to his son. After a slow blink he says, “I’d like to taste it again, sir.” He curls his hand around the back of George’s neck to draw him in for a kiss. “May I?”

Washington smiles. Instead of the spoon, he dips his finger into the jam and brings it glistening to Alexander’s open mouth. Hamilton sucks it clean. It’s too much. His heart aches in his chest, come loose from its moorings to linger in his throat so he can barely swallow. When Washington withdraws his finger, Alexander takes his hand. They stay still for a beat. Alexander can feel George regarding him with curiosity. Again he says, “May I?” But this time he wraps his fingers around George’s wrist and brings that hand up to his mouth to lick the palm, dart his tongue between the middle and fourth finger. And again, “May I, sir?” as he brings Washington’s palm to cradle his cheek. Washington moves his hand back to notch a finger on either side of Hamilton’s ear and holds steady.

George has his thumb nudged against Alexander’s front tooth when he says, “You’re learning. We can continue this lesson somewhere it isn’t so cold.”

Alexander glows and nods. He gets his feet back on the floor while Washington puts the jam back in its place. His nightshirt feels shorter when he tries to smooth it down. He picks up his candle quickly and the flame snuffs out. He relies on the general’s light to make it back to the bedroom.

He’s still hungry, but it can wait.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Fine Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578637) by [Baldaquin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baldaquin/pseuds/Baldaquin)




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